


Impermanence

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Apologies, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Bottoming from the Top, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sexual Content, Spoilers, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Philip knew it would always be temporary.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impermanence

**Author's Note:**

> This one's dedicated to [hinsabbies](http://hinsabbies.tumblr.com/), my Anderlock partner in crime ♥
> 
>  
> 
> **THERE ARE SERIES THREE SPOILERS CONTAINED IN THIS FIC, PARTICULARLY FOR HIS LAST VOW**
> 
>  
> 
> I've had this in my head since the episode aired but I had papers to write between now and then ;-;
> 
> If you want a song to have feels with to this fic, I suggest ["Just Say Yes" by Snow Patrol](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vW1hv37imjw) ;D

Philip knew it would always be temporary. He knew the moment Sherlock stepped over the threshold into his flat—the first time since the day he told Philip how he'd survived. He knew when he asked Sherlock what he was doing there and Sherlock said, shucking his long coat, "You're going to fuck me." He knew because he was already saying yes, even if he didn't immediately speak the word aloud.

"You're high." It wasn't a question or an exclamation of incredulity. Even if he hadn't followed Sherlock to wreck of a building that passed for a modern day opium den, he'd have been able to read the signs. He certainly would have seen the track marks. He did see the track marks, eventually.

"Not enough to cloud my judgement, if that's what concerns you," Sherlock sneered. "Only enough to jumpstart my libido unfortunately. It's for a case anyway, if that assuages your concern. All in the name of—" he flicked his hand "—justice, or whatever."

"You have a girlfriend," Philip said, another statement, though this one had undertones of contempt.

"Also for a case. Same case actually." Sherlock smiled thinly. It was a haunting look, dark and bloodshot as his eyes were. "And you've been stalking me. So, shall we put aside our quibbles about morality and have sex?"

That was around the time Philip said yes out loud. He could have put up a better front, could have asked why Sherlock came to him, but Philip knew why: because he would say yes, and he wouldn't talk about it.

It was never predictable, no matter how closely Philip followed Sherlock’s movements. He would show up seemingly on a whim—whenever the heroin flipped the switch on his libido—and they would fuck. It felt like Sherlock fucking him, regardless of the fact that it was Philip’s cock up Sherlock’s arse each and every time. It didn’t matter because Sherlock was the one calling the shots, the one in control, the one setting pace and rhythm and every other detail. Philip was a passive participant. He knew he was being used, and he knew he ought to be ashamed for it, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel shame.

Sherlock needed him. However temporary, however base the need, Sherlock needed him in those moments. That was the thought that Philip used again and again to justify himself to himself. The reason he kept saying yes.

After that first night, there was never any talking. Sherlock would show up, Philip would let him in, and they would strip and fuck. There was nothing more to it. No kisses, no caresses. The only touch was for purchase. All things considered, Philip experienced very little of the body so readily on display. Sherlock would climb onto him, push himself onto Philip’s cock, and suddenly what should have been the most intimate of contact became little more than a handshake. Physically, it was a very good handshake, but it left Philip increasingly more hollow, and more reticent to say no the next time.

He settled for watching. He could do that much, with Sherlock perched on top of him, head hung back and eyes shut as he rode Philip at his leisure—or not, depending on his mood. Philip knew he couldn’t touch, knew without even asking or trying that any attempt at real intimacy and the deal would be off. After all, he wasn’t an idiot. So he grazed Sherlock’s body with his eyes, traced the slowly fading scars from months, maybe years ago now. Philip simultaneously wondered and shrunk from the possibilities of how Sherlock had undergone such abuse. He watched the sweat bead across his torso, his neck, his shoulders—his arms. Inevitably, Philip’s gaze would drift to Sherlock’s arms, no matter how long he tried to ignore them. As soon as he saw the track marks, instantly noting the newest, he would shut his eyes until Sherlock had finished.

Sherlock would only stay long enough to catch his breath, clean up a bit in the bathroom, and dress. Some days and nights he would leave, and Philip would still be laying in his bed, or on the sofa, or wherever they had fucked that time. Sometimes, the front door would click shut, and Philip would still be hard, until he took off the condom and went to the bathroom to quickly finish on the loo.

 

After the fourth time, about a week into their arrangement—it was such a formal word, but Philip had no better way to term it—Philip was stopped on the pavement by a well-dressed business woman.

“Dr. Anderson,” she said right before Philip passed her. She opened the door to an expensive black town car. “Mr. Holmes would like to speak with you.”

It only took Philip a second to realise Mr. Holmes did not refer to Sherlock. He’d done plenty of research on Mycroft during Sherlock’s absence, or certainly had attempted to. He figured enough to get into the car.

He was dropped at an unassuming building on Whitehall. The woman led him in to an unassuming office, where the older Holmes brother sat beside a large antique desk. At a gesture from Mycroft, Philip sat in the seat across him. The woman left, closing them in together.

“Dr. Philip Anderson, formerly a forensic science expert for the Metropolitan Police.” Mycroft’s hand was splayed on top of a file. “You’re sleeping with my little brother.”

Philip didn’t know what to say, if he should say anything. He managed a slight nod.

“Oh, don’t worry, I don’t intend to interfere. However, I would greatly appreciate any information you might pass my way.”

Philip frowned. “Information?”

“About his wellbeing. If there’s anything I ought to know.”

“As a caring big brother,” Philip muttered.

Mycroft gave him a humourless smile. “Of course. You will be compensated.”

For a moment, Philip considered it. Not for the money, but for Sherlock’s sake. Much as the genius would hate it, would hate Philip for it, Philip considered telling Mycroft about the heroin. For a moment. “No.”

“‘No’ there’s nothing you wish to tell me, or ‘no’ you decline?”

“You’re the genius.” Philip stood. “Deduce.”

Mycroft sighed and folded his hands on his desk. “It astounds me how someone like Sherlock can elicit such devotion.”

“He doesn’t try bribing people to spy for him. Star there.” It was a stupid thing to say, and inaccurate. Philip knew all about Sherlock’s homeless network, even before Sherlock told him how he’d survived. But Mycroft merely gave him another tight smile and bid him a good day.

 

When almost a month had gone by since Sherlock began coming to Philip’s flat, Mycroft called Philip directly. To ask a favour, was how he phrased it, for Sherlock’s sake. A drugs bust, loosely speaking.

If Philip hadn’t said yes, god knew who Mycroft would have called in. Mycroft asked—instructed him to bring one of Sherlock’s fans—Mycroft’s word—one who would treat the matter as discreetly as Philip. He didn’t bother asking why, doubting he’d get an answer if he did. He rang up one of the members of the now dismantled Empty Hearse, a forensic student, and asked her to meet him at Baker Street, giving her as few details as possible.

The look on Sherlock’s face didn’t hit as hard as Philip might have expected, and he found himself telling Sherlock it was for his own good. It was. He was there because he cared, not because Mycroft ordered him to be there. He couldn’t say all that of course, but he hoped Sherlock could deduce it in the few seconds he paid Philip any heed.

Philip didn’t pay much attention to the name passed between the brothers and John, or the threat Mycroft issued in an calm, exacting tone. Who would he tell anyway?

Sherlock’s visits stopped after that day.

 

Then there was the shooting. He ignored the tabloids. He wanted desperately to go to the hospital, even knowing Sherlock would despise him if he did. That wasn’t what stopped him. What stopped him was what would come of things if he did go, the questions that would be asked, and he had made a wordless agreement not to divulge what had transpired between them. So he stayed him and returned to his old habits, scouring the papers and telly for any news of the detective.

Months passed, and there was hardly a whisper of Sherlock in the papers. No surprise, gunshot wound and all. Greg mentioned over coffee once how he wished he could’ve called Sherlock in on a recent case, that it had taken them longer than it needed to, and the killer had nearly left the country before they caught him. Philip only half-listened.

Then Christmas came, and the papers were aflame with headlines. DETECTIVE TURNED MURDERER? GENIUS GONE MAD? DID DEATH DRIVE SHERLOCK HOLMES INSANE? It was the question marks that gave Philip an unreasonable amount of hope. The abrupt silence from the papers a day later ripped that hope away.

Philip was one of thousands out and about in London when Jim Moriarty’s face inexplicably showed up on every screen across the city. He was one of millions who felt panic grip them and refuse to let go. The city, and even the world to an extent, was in upheaval for a week.

 

Nine days after the tech hijack, there was a knock at Philip’s door. A knock he recognised, without realising that he had come to recognise it. He was ready to say no. He opened the door and said, before he could take Sherlock in, before Sherlock could so much as blink, “I’m done.”

Sherlock’s brow lifted in surprise. “I’m not.” He pushed past Philip into the flat, shucking his scarf and gloves and coat as he went.

Philip slammed the door shut. “I can’t do this again.”

“I’m here to talk, Philip.”

He was surprised. Actually, surprised was an understatement. He looked Sherlock over. He was tired, and not simply from lack of sleep. The only consolation was he was certainly clean, at least by the look of things.

“I am,” Sherlock said. “Clean.”

Philip shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling he always got when Sherlock seemingly read his mind.

“I was shot,” Sherlock stated rather plainly. Then he looked around the flat as if remembering where he was. “May I?” He motioned to the sofa.

Philip shrugged and nodded. He pulled up the table chair and sat across Sherlock, much like they had when Philip interviewed him about his surviving the fall.

“I was shot,” Sherlock repeated.

“It was in the news.”

“I died.”

Philip felt suddenly hollow. “What?”

“Then that wasn’t in the news I take it.” Sherlock showed a brief, bitter smile. “Technically, I died. My heart stopped. They had given up on me. Only the thought of John in danger brought me back.”

Philip’s chest constricted. “I thought you said you died.”

“Technically. They don’t tend to measure brain function, which can last a little longer.”

“Right.”

“You know,” Sherlock said, as if musing to himself aloud, “I hadn’t actually told anyone yet, that it was John’s safety that brought me back.”

“You should tell him,” Philip muttered.

Sherlock blinked, and his mood shifted. “Of course, that isn’t why I’m here, to tell you about that.”

Philip sighed. “Then why are you here? If it’s to fuck, I said I’m done. I mean it.”

“I believe you, and that’s not why. When I was shot, I had only a moment to assess the situation before going into shock. Naturally, I retreated to my mind palace.”

“Naturally.”

Sherlock ignored the interruption. “My mind supplied necessary information through the forms of various individuals. Molly Hooper, of course. Mycroft, unfortunately,” Sherlock grumbled. “Quite surprisingly, however, it also supplied your visage.”

Philip’s eyes widened. “Me? What am I doing in your mind palace?”

“That is exactly what I intended to find out, had other matters not been more pressing.”

“Moriarty.”

“For the time being, while various government agencies work themselves into a frenzy in no doubt useless attempts to locate whoever the sender of that message is, Moriarty is not at the forefront of my thoughts. Now that certain other matters have been attended to, however, I come back to you—and why you appeared as I began dying.” Sherlock was on his feet in a flourish, hands clasped behind his back as he began a graceful sort of pacing. “The most obvious answer is your expertise as a forensic scientist. Your job, in here—” Sherlock tapped his temple “—was to direct my attention to the fact that the bullet was still lodged inside me, rather than having passed through. However, any number of people could have filled that role. Gary, for instance.”

“Greg,” Philip corrected.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, but the smile was suppressed. “Even Molly could have supplied the necessary information. So why you? I eventually came to the regretful conclusion that your appearance implies my respect for you.”

Philip’s mind latched onto several parts of that sentence, and multiple questions vied for utterance. “You respect your brother?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Not on the whole, but in some regards, yes.”

“And you respect me now?”

“So it would seem.”

“Regretfully.”

Sherlock swivelled on his heel to face Philip directly.

Philip slapped his knees. “Right, well, thanks for that. You can leave now.”

“I’m sorry, Philip.”

The word was a blow, to say the least. Philip sat back in his chair. “Excuse me?”

“For using you.”

“You’re… sorry?”

“And I won’t say it again, so you can stop trying to trick me into it.” Sherlock walked past Philip and began pulling on his scarf.

“Sherlock, wait.” The chair scraped as Philip stood. The sound made Philip’s skin shiver, among other things.

Sherlock looked at him, and Philip saw the deduction coming. “Now you do?”

“What?”

“Say yes. You want to say yes now. Why?”

Philip unconsciously stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I care about you. It’s not an obsession, it’s not guilt. Maybe it started that way, while you were gone, but it’s not now. I don’t think it’s been for a while. It’s not why I said yes. It’s not why I’m saying yes.”

Sherlock slowly unwound his scarf again. “I’m not very good with sentiment, and I don’t particularly care to be.”

Philip shrugged. “We all have our baggage.”

“I don’t indulge when I’m on a case, normally.”

“When you’re not getting high for a case you mean.”

Sherlock smirked.

“So stay clean.”

“With Moriarty—or whoever is using his face—a very long case could be starting soon.” He set his scarf on his coat again.

Philip shrugged. “I’ve got two hands.”

Sherlock walked toward him. “I don’t particularly care for sporadic or public displays of affection.”

“I’m not a teenager.”

“And I always,” Sherlock said, his voice going low as he leaned close to Philip’s ear, “always bottom.”

Philip shivered. He swallowed and whispered back, “Not from where I was laying.”

Sherlock took hold of Philip’s wrists and pulled his hands form his pockets. He guided them to his hips, and then rested his own hands on Philip’s shoulders. “I am sorry, Philip.”

“I thought you wouldn’t say it more than once.”

“Say what more than once?” Sherlock pulled his face back and gave Philip a quick coy smile. Quick, because a second later he had his lips pressed against Philip’s and was slipping his arms over Philip’s shoulders.

Philip’s breath hitched and tightened his hands on Sherlock’s hips. He pushed into the kiss, into Sherlock.

They went to the bedroom where they began undressing each other. It was a novel experience, since before they had only ever undressed themselves. Once Philip had Sherlock’s shirt open, he hesitated to touch, fingertips all but grazing Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock covered Philip’s hands with is palms and pressed them against himself. Then he cupped Philip’s face and kissed him hard.

Philip ran his hands, softly at first, down Sherlock’s torso and around to his back. He slipped his hands below the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers and pants and mapped out his hips with his fingertips.

Sherlock pushed him away to pull off his jumper and strip him of his own shirt. They tugged urgently at each other’s trousers until they, too, were off, and Sherlock pushed Philip gently back onto the bed. He lined Philip’s sternum with soft kisses, down to his pelvis. He wrapped a hand around Philip’s cock and took the head into his mouth.

Philip moaned and pushed his fingers into Sherlock’s curls. It was just as well Sherlock didn’t spend long with his lips wrapped around Philip’s cock. If this really went anywhere, though, Philip would definitely ask him to suck him off completely in the future.

Sherlock retraced his kisses and continued them to Philip’s neck and chin until he was back at his lips, where he kissed him as briefly before whispering, “I want you to open me.”

It was another thing Philip had never been permitted to do. Sherlock always stretched himself before showing up, enough so that it only took a moment to check and add some addition stretching if necessary, which he always did himself. Now Philip scrambled stupidly for the lube in his bedside table.

Sherlock grinned and rolled off Philip and onto his stomach, spreading his legs with abandon.

Philip knelt between his splayed thighs and sucked in a quiet breath. He ran one slick finger over Sherlock’s hole. Completely and utterly tight. He pressed his fingertip against the ring, pressing gently until they began to relax, and he pushed inside. He could get off on this, the feeling of just a finger inside Sherlock. He was careful not to let his other hand drift to his own cock, and instead gripped Sherlock’s arse.

When Philip’s finger was completely inside Sherlock, stretching with gentle pulls, Sherlock murmured into his forearms, “You have good fingers.”

Philip couldn’t help but smile to himself. “That so?”

“Not particularly surprising. A man of your profession ought to have careful hands.”

“I don’t have a profession.”

“No, you don’t have a job.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “I’ll fix that, if you want.”

Philip stopped what he was doing. “What?”

“I’ll talk to the Yard. I have a few favours I can call in.”

“You’re… You’re offering to help me get my job back?”

“Obviously.”

“Why?” Incredulity didn’t cover what Philip was feeling.

“You’re good at what you do.” Sherlock lowered his head again and sighed contentedly, “Very good.”

Philip’s attention returned to the finger in Sherlock’s arse, and he decided the other matter could very much wait. When he was done and pulled his finger out, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to hollow in Sherlock’s lower back.

Sherlock rolled over, pulling his knees up. “Do you want to take me this time?”

Philip shook his head. Another time, next time, if he could hope for as much. “I like watching you.” He laid down next to Sherlock, and for a moment they kissed, hard and rushed, hands skimming over each other’s bodies.

This time, with Sherlock on top of him, Sherlock tight around him—this time, Philip touched, running his hands up Sherlock’s thighs before digging his fingers in. This time, Sherlock looked at him. Hands pressed against Philip’s chest, Sherlock looked at him. If nothing else made it new, made it better, his eyes meeting Philip’s did.

Sherlock rode him slowly at first, hardly blinking, eyes locked with Philip’s. He rode him with increasing speed and force, and Philip moved his hands to Sherlock’s hips, his own pushing up, pushing deeper.

“Close,” Sherlock panted. “So close.”

Philip groaned and nodded. So was he.

“Touch me.” He gripped one of Philip’s hands and guided it clumsily to his cock. “Touch me, Philip.”

Philip wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock for the first time. It burned. He wanted to taste it. Someday, maybe, if he could dare to hope and keep hoping. He pulled Sherlock off with quick strokes to match Sherlock’s pace, and Sherlock came across Philip’s chest with a loud, high moan as he clenched around Philip’s cock. Philip finally snapped his hips into Sherlock, pulling forth a few cries and whimpers.

“Philip,” Sherlock practically whined.

He came with a deep, rumbling groan. He hadn’t had that good an orgasm in far too long, and he did his best to hang onto the feeling. He was afraid to hope.

But Sherlock didn’t leave, not when he caught his breath, not when he lifted himself off Philip. He flopped onto his stomach at Philip’s side with a satisfied hum.

After a moment in which Philip’s mind began to buzz with barely subdued panic, and pulled off the condom and tied it off, dropping it on the floor to deal with later. He rolled onto his side and took in the sight of Sherlock—still there. Hesitantly, he ran his fingers down Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock let out another hum. He turned his head to the side so he could look at Philip. “I’m not going anywhere, not unless you want me to.”

“No,” Philip answered, perhaps a little quickly. “Please don’t.”

Sherlock rolled onto his side with his back to him, and Philip took the sign to wrap his arms around Sherlock and hug him close to his chest. Sherlock folded his arm over Philip’s and brushed his fingers across the back of his hand. “I truly am-”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock turned his face to Philip, wearing quite the confused frown.

“You’ll ruin the moment, and your reputation for London’s smartest arse.”

Sherlock chuckled and relaxed.

Philip pressed his nose into the back of Sherlock’s head and breathed in deeply. He would always say yes.


End file.
